lettering
Roger opened his letter of termination. There was no malice in the way it was written. Budget cuts, restructuring, a thank you for his five years of employment. He looked it over one more time before folding it neatly back into the envelope it came in.
“Do you want some cheesecake? It’s Linda’s birthday and there’s cheesecake in the kitchen.” A coworker said as they appeared in the doorway of his office.
“No, thank you.”
“Okay, suit yourself.”
Roger looked at his desk. Several manila envelopes remained stacked one on top of the other, each labeled with the name of a different student, each folder containing a copy of their resume and the outline of a cover letter. He felt a sudden pang of sadness as he imagined telling his students that they no longer had a career adviser.
“I got you some cheesecake anyway.”
“Thank you.” Roger didn’t move as a small plate was placed in front of him. His coworker observed him.
“What’s wrong?”
Spring came and went, and Roger received no job offers. He filled out two or three applications a day, but as unemployment went on, while he expected his sense of urgency to grow, it simply fizzled out instead.
Now he applied once a week. Twice, maybe.
On his three month anniversary of staying at home, he sat down with a pen and notepad. He had decided it was time to take stock of his entire life, and no detail seemed too ridiculous to write down. Upstate New York. 29 years old. Gemini.
Under a new subheading he wrote the word “interests”. This was the longest pause of the entire process. When examining it closely, Roger was not passionate about helping others fill out job applications. Rather, his interest, and the only interest he wrote down that night, was helping.
Roger stopped applying. In the last few weeks of summer, he only searched for jobs once. Even then, he didn’t search for career services or adviser, but instead he considered what it would look like if he taught English abroad, or of working in the gift shop of a museum.
To fill the time, he began learning the guitar, reading more books, cooking, taking more photographs, painting (once), running, watching movies, playing video games with teenagers on the internet who often stayed home from school, cleaning, shopping for small furniture, and writing.
One morning he received a reply from a job he applied to months ago. He set it on his desk and it occasionally knocking at his mind but there was no certainty that it would be his interest.
Each morning, Roger would get out of bed a few minutes later than the day before. He would spend longer in the shower. It became more and more difficult to have conversations with friends because he wanted to avoid the question of how he was doing, and those became less frequent.
One day while cleaning, he stumbled upon copies of students’ resumes tucked inside a weighted portfolio, causing a jolt of embarrassment as he couldn’t remember the last time he applied for a job.
The money he saved up was dwindling, and deep down he was looking forward to it. Finally, there would be some urgency, a reason to start searching, an excuse to accept whatever offer was given to him. As the new year passed, he began building up the courage to apply.
A distant family member passed away and Roger was caught in the widespread smattering of inheritance. He looked over the notarized letter and checked his bank account. Roger searched the family member’s name on social media to see who they were.
That night, as he was eating dinner, he felt as if he was eating across from a faceless and monstrous figure of apathy as he picked at his sautéed spinach. There were no longer interests. The fabric of his days began to unwind and suddenly they had no substance. A monsoon of guilt crashed against him and he violently admitted, that after all this time, he had no idea what he was doing.
Roger opened the envelope and recognized the letterhead. His position in the career services department existed once more, and they were awaiting his call.
He looked down at the letter, looked up at god, and then looked back down at the letter.
